Spoken Word
by Linkinshire
Summary: A piece of spoken word poetry written from Bianca's POV on how the world sees her and who she really is. [Bianca-centric character analysis] [Rated T for mentions of racism, sexism and ageism as well as some language]


_A/N: This is just a character study I wrote for Bianca in the form of some spoken word poetry from her POV. 'Why?' I hear you ask. Because Zawe Ashton, the actress who played her, won the London Poetry Slam Championship in 2000 and it's now my headcanon for Bianca that she takes part in them outside of school. There are hints towards racism, ageism and sexism in this text (some more subtle than others) so do be aware of that.  
Bianca is, to me, a character who has these strong opinions about important issues, knows about those issues and is really passionate about them but has no way to express it besides through poetry. So yeah, just imagine Bianca in a smoky cafe and reading this off a battered notebook, waving her arms around as she speaks because she's so into it._  
_(N.B: I am not a poet so I won't pretend this is any good. I was mostly getting a feel for the character._)

* * *

So there I am, I'm walkin' down my own street like I've done a million times before and they're all eyein' me distastefully, distrustfully, like I'm no better the Black Death of 1348 and not for the first time I am wondering what the fuck it was I did to deserve it...

Their eyes are darker than my own skin, the skin that makes them nervous, or worse, they're sharp like blades, like barbed wire, tryin' to keep me away because they're so desperately afraid; afraid that I'll infect them, seep into their bones and contaminate their children.

Their fear is so thick it can almost be smelt and they're crossin' the road jus' to avoid me and whisperin' to the untainted minds of their kids to 'never _ever _be like that'. They're whisperin' words of hate and warning that may or may not justify the anger curling in my stomach, curling up tightly as if it were an angry viper and it's hissing and it's crawlin' up my throat and aching for me to just spit it out and tell them that they're _all fucking wrong._

Because they're wrong.

But I never do.

I swallow it back, the vile taste lingerin' in my mouth from it's poison 'cuz I know if I speak those words then it'll only fly over their heads like every single airline they were never on.

Because they will _never_ listen. They have _never_ listened. 'Cuz the mere concept of a black, teenage girl in trackies havin' any sort of valid opinion is so 'foreign' and 'out there' that I might as well be dressed for service and preaching God to 'em for all the seriousness they offer me.

And trying to explain an identity is truthfully, quite simply, an impossibility...

Because however I define an identity, it will never be exactly the same as somebody else's even if I wrote it down and gave 'em the words to say 'cuz they wouldn't say itlike I did. Or maybe they'll speak different words and maybe they'll be right or maybe they'll just be quoting the dictionary definition and tellin' everybody that 'cuz it's in there then they must be right... But that's the issue, isn't it? 'Cuz nowadays, nobody can even begin remember how to think for themselves.

We're nothing but sheep and we travel in these little herds with people who'll nod and agree with us and who you'll nod and agree to and it's a rancid plethora of hypocrisy because we're telling others who they are yet sacrificing our own identities for the sake of not ending up on someone else's dinner plate.

We live in the coward's world of the buying and selling game.

We live on an infinite Monopoly board where all that you can buy is people and the only thing you can sell is yourself; your opinions, your sense of style, your ideas and your emotions.

Because in this world where society is ruled by pack rats and hoarders, the only thing you're worth is the sum of everything you're willing to change about yourself. You're only worth as much as you're not but could be pushed into being if they try hard enough 'cuz enough pressure will make anybody bend and then they'll shape you into something else and you're really nothing more to them than a tiny scrap of beaten metal is to a seasoned blacksmith.

… Replaceable. Expendable. Malleable.

And that is why, when a man tells me that I'm a young lady who needs to 'sort out my act', that I tell him that I'm proud as fuck that I'm not like everybody else. That is why, when a woman tells me that I'm 'setting a bad example' that I tell her that I'm glad I am because this bad example is a better one that she's settin' and when little kids, with their pure and innocent minds, come up to me and ask me why their parents told 'em to avoid me that I tell them it's because I'm better than they are, I tell them that it's because they don't really know me, I tell them it's because I'm black, that it's because I wear Nike and Adidas, that I talk in slang and walk with a swagger and that I walk with that swagger because I'm not one of them and I have_ not been broken_.

I tell them it's because if you're not broken then everybody thinks you need fixin'...

I tell them all...

But they'll never listen. They've_ never _listened.

'Cuz I mean, the mere concept of someone like me having a valid opinion is just ridiculous... ain't it?

* * *

_A/N: Please call me out if I wrote anything offensive. I did my best to get into the mindset of how I imagine Bianca to be but do note that I am white, I am a guy (trans but still) and I'm not from an area where slang and such is commonplace so I'm kind of at a slight disadvantage. Again, please do point out anything offensive and I'll do my best to rectify it. I want to portray Bianca as a strong young woman who is very self-assured and if this doesn't do that then let me know. That said, do please review. I'd very much appreciate it. _


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